


It Won't Matter

by PenchantForRaisingCain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst, F/M, Past Domestic Violence, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:47:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenchantForRaisingCain/pseuds/PenchantForRaisingCain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school is difficult at best. With his father murdered and the police given up, the distractions are plentiful. But was this distraction for the best?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“It won’t matter.”

It was the least he could do. He could try to make up some of the work. But it won't matter. Too many missing assignments. Too many infractions. How he survived detention was simply fantastic. He was failing every class expect Chemistry and maths. He was quite fond of that class. He had excelled past his classmates rapidly and intuition never faltered. 

He hated English, social studies, and physical education. He would sit at his desk, scribbling something entirely irrelevant to the lesson. How many times he got sent out of class for not participating amounted to a number too great to be practical. Social studies was his least favourite out of all of them. What good is it for? The activity held absolutely no interest for him when there could be a nice murder happening out in the bustling city of London. 

Sherlock shuffled in his wooden chair and lifted the lid open. Minutes pass as he stares at the white pixels. 

Suddenly, he slams the top down. A horrendous screech follows in the wake of his chair on the hardwood flooring. He didn't care about the scratches that were inevitably on the surface. A scar of his aggression. 

The angry teenager fumed as he looked out the window of London. His city. From the dirty back alleys to the magnificent skyscrapers being erected as time wore on. One hand rested upon the cool glass, soothing his heated core. His hand curled into a fist as reality came before him. 

His grades. Those damned letters upon a progress report that meant absolutely nothing to him. The grading curve didn't, couldn't, apply to him. The maddening babble of his idiotic teachers was never fully cemented in his mind. It just wasn't worth his precious time. Every test, every assignment, every paper he didn't write came back with an F. Mycroft would always come home with perfect records, perfect everything. The ideal student, the student his mum and dad expected from him. 

The anger bubbles and boils as he hits the glass with his enclosed fist. He wasn't his older brother. Damn the expectations. He was his own person. He knew he was every bit, if not more, intelligent than his brother. His arse of a brother. Strolling in and telling him his efforts won't work. 

A few months earlier, before first semester ended, the counselors called him out of Chemistry class. 

"Sherlock, over the years, you haven't been getting the best grades," they began, trying to sugarcoat it for his teenage innocence or whatever. "You need to try and get your grades up." It was the same routine every time. The counselors would say their spiel, mentally presume that he had some kind of learning disability, and then it would be Sherlock's turn to participate in the conversation. 

"You have a psychosomatic tick in your right hand when you're on a craving a, well from looking at the stains on your middle finger that you try everyday to remove from your skin that it can be only a cigarette," he starts nonchalantly. He takes a deep breath through his nose. "Low tar, I presume. Also from the the state of your wedding ring on your left hand you have been unhappily married for, lets see, 7 years." The counselor folds her hands and puts them in her lap. "Last night you told your husband you had to stay late at work while you met someone at, lets see... Samson's Pub on Eastfarthing Road. After a few drinks, both of you went back to his place and... Got busy and he returned you to your car before it would arouse any suspicion with your husband." 

Before he could continue, the purple pad of detention slips was placed on the desk, once again. He would fill out the required information, and retire from the room. 

Then the last visit came. One thing about Sherlock Holmes is that he absolutely despised school. Every bit of it. 

This last call to the counselors office occurred on a rainy Thursday. 

"Sherlock Holmes, please come to the counselors office," came over the PA system. Sherlock silently grabbed his books and made a swift exit under the watchful eyes of all his classmates. He strode to the counselors office, expecting the usual. They would sugarcoat everything and then he would get a detention. It was a comfortable routine. 

The secretary waved him in as he walked past. A man sat behind the desk this time and motioned for him to take a seat. 

"Sherlock," the man started, "you know why you're here, don't you."

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak. "Of course I-"

"No. Today I am doing all the talking. The grades on your progress report have a function. They decide where your future lies. See these F's? They stand for fail." Sherlock rolls his eyes. Of course he knows what it stands for. "For the past four years you have gotten nothing but F's in every course. Well I have news for you. You will not get your diploma at the end of this year. You will not graduate with all of your classmates. Without at least a C average, you will have to repeat your senior year of high school. You don't want that, do you?" The counselor finishes his monologue and looks at Sherlock for an answer. 

After an almost uncomfortable amount of time, he leans forward. 

"Up yours." His hand is inches from the counselors nose. 

Detention. Again. What a surprise.

In reality, that was the best thing he could think of. Inside, he was bloody terrified. He wanted to graduate to get on with his life. He wasn't planning on college. He couldn't stand another four years of professors and idiotic people. 

He stormed out of the office, grabbed his books from the secretary's desk, and left. He pursued his locker and wrenched it open. Papers crackled and books clunked and pencils clattered as he let his cargo unceremoniously spill into the locker. Sherlock closed his locker and walked through the winding hallways and heavy school doors. 

He crossed the Tarmac to his beloved motorbike which he had purchased when he was sixteen. He straddled the bike and put on his helmet. The engine purrs to life and growls as he makes his way out of the parking lot. 

He reached home in ten minutes, exact to his calculations of traffic and wind speed. The front door slams shut, announcing his arrival to the household. Mycroft strides down to meet his brother. 

"How was school, Sherlock?" He asks, a smile upon his face. 

Sherlock doesn't say anything as he shoves past his brother and locks himself in his bedroom. He lays upon the duvet and closes his eyes. Totally immersed in thought he comes to three options:  
One, he can continue as he is and not graduate high school on time.  
Two, he can work his arse off and get the missing work in.  
Three, he could drop out and make Mycroft the poster child of the family. 

By process of elimination, number two seems to be the only logical option. He can't let Mycroft get all the praise in the family. He could at least try to put in an effort to class from now until the end of semester. 

He suddenly leaps off his bed and opens the lid to his laptop. A new Word document is opened and he hastily begins typing. 

London is a fantastically complicated city, full of underground systems, towering structures, and people. People. So many people. Moving around in the same space, never knowing if another will stab you in the back. People are unique. The serial killers. Terrorists. Psychopaths. The frightfully annoying and incredulous. A whole city, full of mur-

"Sherlock, do you really think your teachers will put up with this again?"

Sherlock slammed the lid of his laptop down and turned to face his brother. 

"Mycroft," he says, somewhat annoyed. "I need to get this paper done for tomorrow. Kindly take yourself out of my room." A small lie, but the truth was something he did not want to utter aloud. 

"I just don't see why you even bother," Mycroft says dismissively. "You're already failing almost every class."

"Piss off, Mycroft."

He wandered to the door then turned back around. "Just remember, Sherlock. It won't matter." The door softly clicks and Sherlock is left alone with his brother's words swirling within his mind. 

"It won't matter."

It is true in some ways. Whenever he actually turned in his work he got in trouble for the topic or the language he uses. For a boy of seventeen years old, he had quite the extensive vocabulary. It would always infuriate his teachers. A teenager with a bigger and better vocabulary. 

Sherlock slowly closes his laptop once more and touches both forefingers to his lips, his hands together. His hands move down to his chin while in the same position. His blue eyes pierce every object in the room as he looks around. 

Sherlock Holmes was indeed bored. He got up and paced around the wooden flooring. He takes two long strides over to the bookcase on the far wall. He rearranges some books to find the secret spot. His stash. 

You see, being significantly more intelligent than the rest of your high school has down sides. Sherlock was lonely, quiet, and reserved. Nobody talked to him. He talked to nobody. In ninth grade he would get slammed into his locker by the seniors almost everyday. He learned that humans are ridiculous creatures, creatures he did not want to associate with. The only time he felt good was when his mind strayed to thoughts lurking in the back alleys of murders unsolved and serial killings. He was able to put his vast mind to work, sifting, sorting, solving. Sometimes it wasn't enough. Sometimes he needed a little something more. 

His hands wander the insides of the secret hiding place and come up empty. 

"Mycroft..." Sherlock muttered darkly, as he reassembled the books. He kept asking himself how Mycroft found out about that stash. He had known about this complication since it started. 

He needed, craved, for something to inject into his veins. He spun around on his heel and headed for the closet. Top shelf. In the shoe box. His morphine. He pulled the box down from its resting place and took out the elastic band. He tied it off around his forearm and punctured the needle into the small bottle containing his chemical release. He pulls the plunger back and injects the drug into his system. As he pushed the plunger in, his body begins to relax. His eyes lose the stressed haunted look. All his muscles relax. He untied the elastic and put it back in the shoebox. 

He put the box back in the closet and flops down on his bed, his eyes already beginning to feel heavy with blissful ignorance. He sucks in a deep breath and closes his blue eyes and eases into the white tranquility. 

"It won't matter"

"It won't matter."

"It won't matter."

* * * * * * *

 

"Sherlock! Get up." Mycroft rustled his brother's unconscious form. It had been almost 4 hours since he had heard any sign or sound proving his well being. The boy on the bed stirred and mumbled a few unintelligible words and went quiet again. Mycroft huffed in annoyance and then rolled Sherlock onto his front. His lips were slightly parted, snoring lightly. 

Then Mycroft slapped him rather crossly across the cheek. His eyes flew open and he frantically looked around the room, his eyes settling on a scowling Mycroft. 

"Bloody hell, Mycroft," he said, rubbing his reddened cheek. He sat up on his bed. His shirt had gotten creased and wrinkled through his slumber, his dark curls disheveled. He ruffles his hair and looks up at Mycroft. "Why are you still in my room?"

"Mum sent me up here with supper. It's gotten to that point by now." He nods towards the tray on the desk, his eyes hooded. Still groggy from his rude awakening, he leans back on the heels of his hands. 

"And what point would that be?" Asked Sherlock, eyeing his brother.

"The point that you seclude yourself to your room with your substances. And don't deny it. Mum and I are concerned about you, but it's past the point where we can do much about it." Sherlock looks his brother in the eyes, and saw sadness, concern, and something else. Something Sherlock couldn't decipher. "The most I can do to help you is by taking it away from you."

"Mycroft, I am seventeen years old, I can take care of myself," he stated coolly. 

"And by taking care of yourself is injecting yourself with cocaine countless times a day?" Sherlock begins to protest but his brother cuts him off. "No. It's my turn to speak, Sherlock. The first time I went through your stash I tested the contents. A seven percent saturation. Of straight cocaine. Sherlock, this is not taking care of yourself." Mycroft finished his monologue slightly out of breath. Sherlock stares emptily at his worried brother. Silence. Minutes pass. Nothing. No reaction. 

"I'm done trying with you. Good luck with your life, Sherlock." He turns on his heel and strides out of the room. The door softly clicks and Sherlock is left alone again. 

Sherlock Holmes was a bright teenager. He knew what the long term effects of cocaine were. He knew very well. The drug helped him focus on pressing matters. His current work in progress was a piece he called The Science of Deduction. He had also recently begun a work on all the different types of tobacco ash. So far he had found at least two hundred. He could tell you your life story by one good look. He could deduce who the murderer was by just the police report and the barest of evidence. Sherlock Holmes was a brilliant teenager who wasn't concerned with school. He loved a good puzzle. A nice murder to solve. He wanted, needed, and longed for a puzzle to solve. He needed a puzzle to keep his mind in pristine function. Without it, he was merely another teenager uninterested in school and doing drugs. 

Sherlock sat down behind his desk again. He opened his laptop once more and peered at the vicious words on the screen. 

"It won't matter."

His graceful fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure of touching the keys underneath. His gaze traveled over to his left. His supper. He inhaled deeply, capturing the scent. 

Fish and chips. Alaskan cod, caught yesterday morning. Batter is original recipe. Chips are homemade also. Potatoes from America. Too much salt and not enough of whatever is in fish and chips batter. Mum's cooking. 

He slides the plate over to the edge of his desk and goes back to his computer. He had never fancied his mother’s cooking. He always preferred his fathers cooking. He didn't each much these days. His fathers cooking had died with him when Sherlock was 10 and Mycroft was 17. He was just another body in the path of a serial killer. Just another unlucky victim who bled out on the concrete. The ten year old boy with curly black hair watched from behind his mother as the officer laid the news upon them. Sherlock stayed behind his mum as her tears stained the hardwood. Sherlock stayed behind his mum as Mycroft clenched his fists and sprinted out of the room. He stayed behind her as Mycroft drove off in his mothers car. His mum held her face in her hands as the officer tried to comfort her. The ten year old boy did not allow a single tear to drop as gracefully ascended the staircase. 

He stayed in his room allowing no emotion to break his mask of cold reserve. After a solid hour of staring at the same fissure in his wall, Sherlock made his way back downstairs. His mother had vacated the front hall. He walked to the kitchen and looked at the clock. Eight o'clock. He was famished. He rooted around the cupboards and found something he wanted to make. 

Half an hour later, the Mac and cheese was finished and sat in the pot. He put two bowls and two sets of utensils by the pot and scribbled out a note. 

Mum and Mycroft: I made some supper. Help yourself. It isn't much but it's all I can do for tonight.  
-SH

He made himself a small bowl and silently climbed the staircase to his bedroom. The door clicked quietly behind him as be entered his room. He leaned against the white wooden door and slid down. The bowl of macaroni and cheese warmed his lap as he sat there on the floor. Little by little, the noodles disappear and the plate is rendered empty. The boy gathered his dishes and set them on his desk. 

He was out of distractions. 

The ten year old Sherlock Holmes felt the bile rising at the back of his throat. The door was yanked open as the boy raced down the hallway to the bathroom. He had made it just in time. The measly supper he had eaten came back up as he kneeled in front of the toilet. 

His father was dead. His father was most absolutely dead. Killed. Murdered. And there was nothing he could do. His father was he person who understood him like no one else did. He made Sherlock feel loved and cared for and unafraid of the unknown. That person was gone. Dead. Ripped from the world without someone to save him. 

The boy clutched the toilet as the tears came streaming down his face as everything branded itself to his adolescent mind. He stayed in that position until the dry heaving stopped and his face was dry. He stayed kneeling on the bathroom floor until a cool, reserved mask covered up any signs of emotion. He returned to his bedroom and collected his bowl and spoon. He slowly and deliberately entered the kitchen and retired his dishes to the sink. He almost walked right by his original note has it not been for his natural attention to even the smallest change, the littlest detail. One bowl was gone, along with a spoon. 

His note had another line of a scribbled message underneath his own writing. 

Thank you, Sherlock. don't worry about the dishes.  
-Mum

He stares at those two sentences for moments that feel like hours. Sherlock knew how much this is hurting her. He locked those emotions far away, in the pits of his being. He couldn't let them rise to the surface. He needed to stay strong for his mum and Mycroft. 

Sherlock backed out of the kitchen and retired to his room. He pulled back the blue duvet and slipped inside, fully clothed. His eyes close and sleep comes easily to his tired and emotional body. 

"Mycroft! Oh my god, what happened?" 

Sherlock bolted upright in his bed. The front door slammed closed. He looked at his clock. One o'clock in the morning. He sprinted down the hallway and stairs and found his mum and brother in the front room. 

Mycroft was struggling to stay upright in his mothers grasp. His eyes were bloodshot and his speech was slurred. His mothers eyes dart over his ragged appearance. Her eyes stop on Mycroft's left hand. By this time Sherlock was standing right to his brother. He reached out to his brothers hand. When he laid the barest touch to the bloodied skin, Mycroft flinched severely. 

"Mum, I'm fine. Stop fussing," Mycroft said to his frantic mother. 

"No, Mycroft. You are not fine. You stumbled in here drunk off your arse--"

"It's broken." 

"--and with your wrist in that bloody state!" His mums voice raised in hysteria. 

"It's broken," Sherlock said again, equally as quiet. His mother turned to look at her youngest.

"What?"

"It's broken. The wrist. Fractured." He took Mycrofts wrist gingerly between his calm fingers. The skin was cut in multiple places and was bleeding profusely. Droplets of blood littered the floor as gravity did its work. "He needs the ER, Mum. Take him. I can take care of myself here." He looked into his mothers frightened eyes as she ushered Mycroft out of the house. He watched as she pushed Mycroft into the passenger seat and as she rushed back up the front steps. The door opened and Sherlock's mum quickly strode in and planted a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, sweeping back the mess of curls. 

"Be good while Mummy's out. I love you."

The barest of bare whispers escaped his heart-shaped lips. "I love you too."

A small smile tried to form on his mothers features but it wouldn't stay. She took one long last look into her sons green-blue-grey eyes before swiftly exiting the dwelling and peeling out into the streets. 

Sherlock was alone. 

Sherlock was feeling all the same emotions as the rest of his family, but he chose to deal with them differently. His father had a different way of dealing with huge heaps of emotions, swirling like a raging whirlpool threatening to consume everything in its path. A few times in his youth, the boy had peered in his father in his study with a needle, some elastic, and a bottle of fluid. He would watch as his fathers figure would either slouch in relaxation or perk up with the chemical energy coursing through his capillaries. It seemed like a good way to deal with his curious state of mind. All he wanted to do was relax. Forget about the day's events for a bit. 

His bare feet carried him subconsciously to his fathers study. His hands wandered to the upper right hand cabinet. He took out all the contents and spread them on the desk top. He chose a sterile needle and the fluid he wanted. The morphine. He repeated the actions his father would have done if he still had a beating heart in his chest. 

The tranquility spreads from his forearm throughout his whole body, throughout every inch. He closed his eyes and allowed a relaxed sigh to pass his parted lips. The feeling takes over his whole being, and pulls him under into the dreamless unconsciousness he was so desperately craving. The emotional cage fight inside his head freezes as the cold induced slumber calmed them to the point of temporary nonexistence. 

 

A soft knock on Sherlock's door brought him out of his painful reverie.

"Come in," said his deep baritone voice. The door opened a crack and his mother’s head peered in. 

"Hello, sweetheart," she said with the sweetest smile on her lips. She carefully walked into the room. She closed the door behind her.

"Hello, Mum." His eyes never left the computer screen, his fingers still hovering over the letters. His brow furrowed in concentration. She paces to Sherlock's bed and takes a seat. Her blue eyes look longingly at her son. "Did you need something?" 

"No, dear. I just wish you would come out of this stuffy room once in a while." She got up and opened the window. City sounds and fresh air came rushing in, disturbing the silence Sherlock practically lived in. The cool wind seeps into the room. Sherlock's mum looks out the window at The ever turning London Eye. She lets out a heavy breath and comes to stand behind the sitting form of her dark haired son. 

"I just wanted to see how you are. Your brother and I worry about you." Before Sherlock can protest, his mum ruffles his curls and plants a tender kiss on his head. She swiftly exited the room and the door clicked behind her. 

For some time more, he stares at the paragraph in frustration. Countless times had he flexed his infers as if to type but to not actually feel the keys underneath his long fingers. An exasperated sigh left his lips as he closed the laptop lid. Sherlock glanced at the clock. It read quarter to nine. Suddenly, his eyelids became heavy and his mind went in and out of focus. He needed sleep. He silently stood and switched out the light. He stripped out of his clothing and casually tossed them into the basket. He slid under the sheets and laid on his back, staring at the ceiling. He closed his eyes, and willed sleep to come. 

It came quickly, but his sleep was riddled with the painful images of his brother with his bloodied wrist and of his father helplessly bleeding out on the concrete.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock woke up the next morning disoriented and out of sorts. He blinked the sleep out of his blue-green-gray eyes and looked at the clock. Too late to make an appearance at school. He sat up in his bed and thought. He remembered where he had all of his substances around the house. He chose one at random and silently padded down the hall. 

His tense muscles relax as the plunger pushes down. He let out a small groan as he closed his eyes. His lips parted as a small sigh of pleasure escaped his lips.   
Sherlock lazily, but gracefully, sauntered down the stairs and into the sitting room. Mycroft was lounging across the sofa. 

“I was wondering if you were going to come down, if at all,” Mycroft says, not bothering to look up from his paper. Sherlock scowled at his brother and started to walk into the kitchen. “Oh, don’t be like that, Sherlock.” He looked up at his brother this time. 

“Why are you even here?” Said Sherlock with ice in his voice. He turned to face his older brother.

“I am here on a break. Running the British government can be quite tiresome.” 

“Oh, right. That. I had to delete something unimportant,” muttered Sherlock. He turned on heel and strode into the kitchen. Footsteps trailed behind him. Moments later, Mycroft came into the kitchen. Sherlock placed his palms against the cool granite countertop and leaned against them. Mycroft moved to stand in between Sherlock and the wall.

“Brother mine, you really should do something about this drug habit of yours. This isn’t going to solve Father’s murder.” Sherlock’s left hand slapped the granite as he turned on his brother. He took Mycroft’s wrist in his and rather roughly turned him and pinned him to wall. 

“Brother mine, you should do best not to appall me while I’m high,” Sherlock growled inches from his brother’s ear. His fingers found the small scar on his brother’s wrist. Sherlock’s index applied an ample amount of pressure.

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft stuttered. Sherlock didn’t listen. Instead, he twisted his finger around the scar, applying more force. Mycroft let out a strangled high-pitched scream of pain as Sherlock gave one last thrust of his fingers and released his wrist and brusquely left the room as if nothing had happened. Mycroft coddled his pained wrist as he watched the retreated form of his brother from this kitchen.

Mycroft sometimes wondered what had happened to his little brother, the one who would run and play with their old dog, Redbeard. Then he remembered everything he had done. How he had ridiculed his brother after their father’s early departure from this world. He remembered the jabs he made at Sherlocks lack of talkativity. He remembered when he had Sherlock take an arduous test when he was 13 years of age. Mycroft had always thought there was something a little off with Sherlock. He was quite intelligent, but he had an odd way of showing it. He could tell you your life’s story with a single glance. After that test Mycroft had him take, Sherlock had this idea of who he was supposed to be. Sherlock was to be Sherlock Holmes, the high-functioning sociopath. When Mycroft had told him that after the long, tedious test, Sherlock immediately looked up “sociopath” in the dictionary. The little 13 year-old boy ran back to his brother and hit him squarely in the jaw, and returned to his room for the rest of the day. This was also the day that Sherlock began to talk again after three years of silence.

 

Mycroft stayed at the Holmes residence for one more week before returning to his office in Western London. The days inbetween had been spent with a wary Mycroft and a high Sherlock, when Sherlock wasn’t at school. There was a certain kind of uncomfortable silence that lay like thick fog over the two brothers. Sherlock continued to barely eat and sleep. Their mother stayed out of their personal affairs. 

The only pastime Sherlock seemed to enjoy was relentlessly trying to track down his father’s murderer. He was prepared to go to all lengths to avenge his father’s untimely death.

Covering an entire wall in his bedroom, he had maps and lists and theories tacked in the dull paint. He would sometimes stand and absorb his theories and evidence, sometimes he would pace back and forth in front of his wall. He would spend restless nights and endless days in front of this wall. Even though it had been seven years, he did not give up. He had read the police reports time and time again. The murderer hasn't been incarcerated. He still walks free on this earth, in this city. 

Sherlock could go uninterrupted for days on end. He had no friends. No one to interrupt his pacing and theorizing and scrutinizing. Not that he wished for any friends. “Friends” is just a label describing two or more people who can tolerate each other’s irritable squabble and tendencies. It’s idiotic. Sherlock didn’t have any friends. No one gave him the barest of warm looks or understanding. And he liked it that way. Solitude suited him. There was no one to judge his sociopathic habits. High-functioning sociopath, more like.

The only time Sherlock bothered to be around people like himself was when he would stay out for nights in a row. Sherlock’s drug habit was not restricted to at-home use. He would stay out all night at a crack house. He would get blindingly high amongst others who shared his fancy of the alkaloid and then pass out for the remainder of the night. Sherlock would stay out well into the morning allowing the detrimental effects to wear off before venturing home to stare at his walls, his ceiling, and the floors, deep in thought.

Mycroft and his mum gave up on trying to reason with the youngest Holmes. They let him do as he pleased. It was easier this way. It was easier to let him do his own Sherlockian thing. 

Life had been this way since Sherlock entered high school. 

Then everything changed. 

 

It started out like any other day. Sherlock would drowsily make his way out the door and on to his motorbike. He would wind through the London traffic to his high school. He would pay absolutely no attention to the rambling nonsense of his teachers. He would occupy himself by deducing everything about his classmates. He saw the ones who had gotten lucky last night, the ones who stayed up all night watching their favourite programmes, and the ones who would stay up all night wondering if anyone cared while dragging the razor slowly across their skin. He could see everything about anyone without even uttering a single word. He had practically deduced the whole school.

Today happened to be a Tuesday, the air smelling lightly of petrichor. The scent wafted through the open windows of his Chemistry classroom. Sherlock’s books, papers, and pencils lay scattered across the desk space next to him. No one even remotely wanted to sit next to him. If they tried, he would ramble off deductions under his breath, bearing no filter when it came to explicit subject matter. The longest anyone sat next to Sherlock Holmes was two days: one Friday and one nasty Monday. The teacher never bothered to put anyone next to the insufferable teenager when seating charts changed. He would be able to lounge his long thin body across both chairs and relax. But, with every sweet privilege comes with it a biting punishment, or so Sherlock though. 

His Chem class was almost too full for the small classroom, with every seat filled with an insecure teenager worrying about their A-levels. Except the one adjacent to his own. So, as you can imagine, if such events transpired, a new insecure teenager worrying about their A-levels would occupy that space. 

Sherlock was amusing himself by taking a long look at his classmate, Cas. He had enough little secrets about him to make the boy fall to his knees and beg for mercy. The name was a bit puzzling to Sherlock. He only had the nickname to go on. He chuckled under his breath at this little amusing thought when the door was apprehensively opened. A girl with her mousy brown hair tied in a ponytail poked her head around the door.

“Is this the Advanced Chemistry classroom?” Her voice came out high and nervous as her eyes skittered over the thirty-five pairs of glossy eyes staring her down.

Mr Harris looks up from his coursework. “You must be Miss Hooper. You are in the right place. You’ll have to take a seat next to Mr Holmes,” he gestured towards Sherlock, and added, “until we can find another spot for you to sit.” The girl, Miss Hooper, gave a small little nod of understanding and awkwardly made her way to the back corner of the classroom. Sherlock’s things hadn’t moved. The girl stood next to the desk, not wanting to cause a scene. 

“May I please sit?” She inquired sweetly. A wasted effort. Sherlock sighed, rather dramatically, and slid his effects and removed his shoes from the chair. He fiddled with his pencil, waiting for the girl to turn her attention to the front. He turned and took one long look at her.

Scholar, never really figured out how to style her hair, wanted to work at St Barts, thought Sherlock. Still a virgin, never has had a boyfriend, but never really cared about it. Gets nervous quite easily: pushes hair behind ear when stressed. Has already mastered the messy doctor’s scrawl, or maybe past issues stooped her growth in legibility. But, somethings here are hidden, buried. Sherlock involuntarily licked his bow-like lips. Won’t it be absolutely marvelous to figure you out?

“What are you looking at?” The girl hissed. Sherlock blinked away his deductive thoughts.

“Nothing.” For some reason, he felt compelled to answer her, instead of outright ignore her inquiry. She was new, fresh. No need to hurry things along.

“My name’s Molly,” she whispered to the unnaturally still and silent boy sitting next to her. He stared passively at the blackboard. He opened his mouth to speak, but then abruptly closed it. No point in scaring her off with a random deduction. Yet. “What’s yours?” Her sweet, innocent, genuine, voice spoke.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Molly’s eyes widened a fraction. His voice. His deep, full tone shocked the scrawny girl. Her first thought was ‘What a beautiful voice. I wonder why he’s so quiet.’ She was tempted to intrude his privacy, but was astounded to see that Mr Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep. Light snores were falling from the boy's parted lips. Unsure of what to do next, the new girl awkwardly turned around in her chair and tried to focus on the lecture. As hard as Molly Hooper tried to listen to the boring drawl of the teacher, but she couldn't shake the unusual feeling she was receiving from the unconscious teenager to her left.

The girl debated whether or not she should wake the slumbering curly haired boy, but before she had time to even contemplate the notion, he shot bolt right in his chair. His eyes were wild, frantic. He looked around the room, remembering where he was, and then calmed down, still breathing heavily. She was the only one who noticed. Molly Hooper was such a sweet girl who didn’t know better. She took out a piece of loose leaf and scrawled a short message.

Are you all right? 

She somewhat awkwardly slid it across the table to lie in front of Sherlock. She tried so hard to not watch him as he read the four words and scratched his own reply.

Why would you care?

Molly frowned slightly. Why is he so guarded? she wondered. She took up her pencil and penned out a few careful words.

Why wouldn’t I?

This time, she watched him read her collection of letters. His eyes widened almost imperceptibly. His lips parted. He turned his head to stare her in the eye. Their eyes met for a split second before she turned away, the blush creeping up her neck. She heard the scratch of graphite on paper and tried to wait patiently.

No one else does. You’re new. You’ll figure it out soon enough. I’m not one for “friends” either, if you hadn’t noticed. And I’m fine, by the way.

Miss Molly Hooper was definitely intrigued now. She was the inquisitive type. She wanted to know the ‘why’ behind things. It was a curse and a blessing. She pondered over how to respond. Should she be taken aback by his stark word choice or play it naive? Oh, to hell with reason. Sarcasm it is.

What could possibly drive anyone away from the mysterious Sherlock Holmes?

She heard him half-chuckle as he read her apparently humourous words.

You’re much too sweet to possibly want to know.

Her brow furrowed together. He didn’t know her at all. They’d only just met.

Oh yeah? Prove it.

The boy got a wicked gleam in his eyes and a sly smile on his lips. He scribbled words upon words upon words onto the paper. The bell rang, interrupting their little game. He pocketed the conversation and left without a single word thereafter. The girl was left, mouth agape, as she pulled together her belongings and made her way out of the classroom. She didn’t know whether to be appalled or attracted to the mysterious curly haired boy. Molly left the classroom, caught the bus, and went home still very confused.

When she entered her home, there was an envelope on the kitchen. Her mother was standing on the other sides of the counter, sorting through the rest of the mail.

“How was your first day, sweetheart?” Her mum asked, slightly distracted. 

“It was good. All good. Interesting, but good,” Molly mumbled, adjusting her backpack. Her mother grabbed the envelope.

“This came for you. A dark-haired boy dropped this off. Said it was for you.” Molly’s name was penned onto the front. Just the name, no return address, not even her own address. Her mother handed the teenager the note and leaned in close. “And, can I just say, he was quite the looker.” She winked at her daughter.

“Mum!” Molly squealed. “It is not okay for you to be crushing on my classmates!” The two women burst into a chorus of laughter.

“Classmate, eh? Is someone getting, oh I don’t know, jealous?” Molly’s mum did her best mocking voice. “Just wait until I put on my dark skinny jeans, Honey. Then you’ll have some serious competition.” 

Molly collapsed into her mother’s arms, still laughing. The garage opened. 

“Quick, head upstairs. Get a start on your homework. Dinner will be at six-ish.” Molly’s mother ushered her upstairs as her father came inside. Molly didn’t linger at the top of the stairs anymore. She had heard the smack of hand on cheek too many times to count. She was almost numb from the sound. Those moments of true happiness she seldom saw from her mother were what helped her get through the nights her father came home drunk and angry.

Molly closed her door quietly. She set her bag on her bed and tossed the envelope onto her desk. She paced around her small room.

How the hell did he get my address? she thought, still pacing.She had so many questions rolling around her muddled brain that the world ceased to make sense for a moment.

“Oh, to hell with this,” she muttered as she tore open the envelope. A folded piece of lined paper sat waiting for her, waiting to be read. She unfolded the page. Her eyes widened. It was the note she passed to the boy in Chem, Sherlock. She almost crumpled it up and tossed it in the bin when she saw scribbles of writing on the back. A solid block of penmanship called to her, begged to be read.

Molly Hooper. You really want to know what drives people away? Let me give you a demonstration. I know that you are a straight A student. I know that you want to get home as quickly as you can to make it safely to your bedroom before your abusive alcoholic father comes home. I know that when you were a child he used to hit you and your mother. You wear long-sleeves of a jacket to cover up the scars from your past. You are still unpacking, given the creases on your shirt. You spend your nights drawing at your desk with charcoal. You must be wondering, “How does this stranger know all of this when he’s been nothing but a complete and utter arse?” Well, Molly Hooper, it’s because I can take one glance and tell you your life’s story. Normal people find this off-putting, to say the least. But you, you seem different. Any other person who would have to endure sitting next to a smart-arse such as I would not have passed something as simple as note with those three little words. But if you know what’s best for you, you’ll stay away. Listen to what everyone says. I am not good company, in fact, I’m the farthest thing from. I wish you luck, Molly Hooper.

-SH

Molly read through it twice. How the hell did he know this much about her? She hadn't said anything personal besides her name. She didn't know whether to be furious with the lanky, curly haired arsehole, or to pretend it never happened and forget about him. But there was something nagging at the back of her mind, something telling her that this is how she could make her life mean something. Maybe this dark haired boy will be what she needs to get out of this rut. She folded up the note and put it back into the envelope. She sighed, and ran her fingers through her hair. Molly tossed the papers onto her desk and changed into some sweats. 

As if she need another thing to clutter up her already full mind. Molly pulled her Calculus textbook out her backpack, and at cross-legged on her bed. Homework was slow and tedious as the smirk on the curly-haired boys face kept flashing into her mind. 

** ** ** ** **

School rolled around the next day as it usually did. Sherlock watched his alarm anxiously waiting to pounce on it as soon it wailed into the silence after another sleepless night. Molly finally woke after five attempts with the beckoning snooze button. Sherlock went into his routine of brushing his teeth and loosely combing his hair. Molly sat in her bed for another five minutes, debating with herself. To shower or not to shower? she thought. But warm bed. But warm shower and CLEAN. But I’m already in bed and I have another half hour. Shower and you will look pretty and maybe that curly haired dick will look at you. What did you say? No, I do NOT like him. Shut up. Just take the damn shower. You’ll thank me. Fine. Molly hauled herself out of her plush bed and trudged into the bathroom. Sherlock moved his laptop to the floor and perched on his desk, staring at his wall of leads for the millionth morning in a row. He gracefully stepped back down to the hardwood floor. Molly stepped out of her hot, refreshing shower. She felt renewed, inspired. She put effort into her makeup. She took time to carefully put together an outfit. Sherlock slowly buttoned up the purple shirt Mycroft had bought for him on his sixteenth birthday. He padded over to his closet and pulled out his black sport coat. He tugged up the zip and buttoned his dark black jeans. Molly pulled the comb through her hair once, twice, three times until it was shining under the dim light of her room. Sherlock waited until he knew he would still be on time. He peeled out of the driveway on his motorbike, feeling free once again. Molly choked down her breakfast, barely making the bus on time. She felt flustered as she rushed up the steps of the school bus, sighing as she settled into the cold brown seat. What a great morning for the second day of school. 

School passed awfully slow. Molly kept looking over her shoulder, thinking that maybe Sherlock was stalking her. But that doesn’t make sense, she thought. I barely told him anything about myself-

“Molly?” Molly’s head jerked up, her eyes slightly dazed and unfocused. “Do you mind telling the class the answer to number seven?” Several students looked her way and snickered. Molly ran her fingers through her auburn-brown hair, flustered. She took a look at her handout, and then to the front board.

“Um…” She picked her brain, trying to recollect what the hell the teacher was talking about. 

“Miss Hooper, the class is waiting.” Everyone was staring at her. She closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. 

“ X equals Y to the third power squared, divided by seven.” Everyone still stared at her. The teacher narrows her eyes at Molly, sure she had caught the new girl day-dreaming. 

“Yes, that is correct,” the teacher begrudgingly admitted as she turned around to write the answer on the board. Molly sighed internally, glad to have avoided certain and undeniable embarrassment. For the rest of class, she at least watched what the teacher scribbled almost illegibly onto the whiteboard.

The bell rang, and Molly waded through the packed halls to her Advanced Chemistry class. She almost thought about ditching, about letting her girlish apprehensions interfere. But Molly stayed, and walked in that classroom door to prove to the curly haired boy that any number of words on a page would not send her packing. This punk, this Sherlock, didn’t know anything about Molly Hooper. 

Sure enough, Sherlock was there at their table. His books took up the whole expanse of the graphite-stained grey material. His long legs were sprawled underneath the table, knees bending awkwardly under the table. Molly held her books close to her chest and confidently sat down. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge her presence. A soft noise escaped his bow-shaped lips. Molly took a second look at him. Was he actually sleeping? Another soft snore escaped his parted lips. Molly set her books down gently in front of her, and used the sleeve of her sweater to stifle a giggle. The rest of class slowly trickled in, creating a comforting buzz of background noise. Sherlock didn’t wake. The high, nasally tone of the bell rang thrice. Mr Harris began speaking. Sherlock was still asleep.

Molly nudged Sherlock on the upper arm. 

“Wake up!” She whispered urgently. No reaction. “Sherlock, you’re going to get in trouble!” He wiggled slightly in his slumber. “Dammit Sherlock,” she cursed under her breath, and then rather forcefully kicked Sherlock in the leg. His glasz eyes opened, startled. He looked around, remembering where he was. He looked over to Molly, and narrowed his eyes. He opened his mouth as if to spit and insult at her, but instead ripped another sheet of notebook paper out his haphazard pile of books. Molly watched him curiously, not caring if she was staring. He scribbled a few words onto the page, tossed his pen down to the desk, and huffed as he slid the paper over.

Why did you wake me up.

The words were demanding, not asking. The anger and irritation rolled off the six little words like rain on window. Molly’s brow creased as she decided how to answer him.

Oh I don’t know, maybe because you were taking up my half of the bench?

Her neat penmanship was the complete opposite of his heated scrawl. She slid the paper calmly over to Sherlock, and picked at her fingers while he read the words. He slid the paper back.

You’re lying.

Molly sighed. Why was she even engaging in this childish back-and-forth? She ran her fingers through her straight hair. 

Can you even go one second without being an arsehole? What’s your problem? 

She pushed the loose-leaf page in front of him bitterly. He made her literally insane. She sighed heavily and took up her notebook and tried to scribble the notes from the board. Focus on the chemistry, only on the chemistry, she thought to herself, but the pencil scratch of Sherlock’s messy penmanship was deafening. She was getting flustered, her sweater getting too warm for comfort. She tucked her hair behind her ear. The edge of the paper tickled her wrist. She kept writing her notes, trying to portray a nonchalant attitude. Molly hoped that this was pissing him off, her disregard of his response. She took a small glance over at him through the corner of her eye. He was staring off out the window, not even worrying about why she hadn’t written back yet. Why did she even give a damn? Molly couldn’t answer that. She wanted to, she really wanted a definite reason to hate him, but her curiosity overruled everything. 

She finally grabbed the note.

You are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some parts of this chapter were supposed to be in italics or bolded, but it doesn't make any real dramatic effect.


End file.
